The Saint to the Rescue (7 page)

Simon ran lean brown fingers through his dark
hair in a
vaguely weary gesture.

“As a psychologist, you’re a terrific
taffy puller,” he said.
“When I get nosey, it takes more than a
polite note to cool
me off. And you had me thoroughly intrigued with the plot
against
your marital honor. So right after breakfast I was
baying on the scent
you’d let me sniff last night. As a
matter of fact, I’ve just come from
the pad of your buxom
bedmate, the flashbulb gal.”

The other’s mouth sagged open to about the
same extent
as his eyes.

“You saw her?”

“On her way to the morgue. Someone else
had been there
first, and shot her.”

“Are you sure?”

“I didn’t see the bullet holes, if
that’s what you mean. But
I saw her carried out, and a neighbor said
that’s what she
died of. However, before that I’d been to the studio of
the guy she
worked for, to get her address. I had to look
it up for myself, in
his book. I can vouch for him. Someone
made so sure of not
missing him that they singed his shirt.”

Mr. Fennick was still staring rigidly.

“This is shocking!”

“Isn’t it?
…
My theory,
of course, is that this person went to see Balton for the same reason that I
did—to get
the gal’s address. And also, perhaps, to get the negative
of a certain picture. Was the photographer who snapped you in the Don
Juan pose a fat fellow with a face like a rather
lecherous pig?”

“I was dazed, and blinded by the light,
as I told you,”
Mr. Fennick said carefully. “And the
man’s face was hidden
by his camera. But I have a sort of
impression that he
was stout.”

“I’m assuming that Balton was the guy.
And since the
gal was on his regular payroll, it would tie in. I also
think
that with a gun in his ribs he was persuaded to hand over
the film,
before he got mowed down anyhow.”

“Why?”

“Because if he hadn’t, there wouldn’t’ve
been any point
in killing Norma. She was only worth killing if she’d
become
the only other person who could swear that there’d ever
been such
a photo. And with the photo gone, it won’t help
the police much to be
told—as their laboratory boys probably
will tell ‘em—that the
same gun did both jobs. They’ll be
stuck for a motive, not having the
inside dope like us
…
But I saw how you reacted when I told you I’d
come from
Norma’s apartment, before I ever said she’d been shot. And
I’ve noticed that you haven’t queried my use of her name
and
Balton’s, although last night you didn’t seem to know
either one.”

Mr. Fennick, groping for some occupation for
his hands,
picked up the spoiled cigar from his ash tray and clamped
it between
his teeth with a practically unconscious automa
tism, made a grimace,
but re-lighted it anyhow.

“After what I told you last night, Mr.
Templar, you could
make it look very bad for me.”

“I could,” said the Saint
detachedly. “But my problem is
that I somehow can’t visualize you
becoming a murderer
just to get out of a phony blackmail jam.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“So I’ve been thinking about your wife,
and a few things I’ve learned about her that you didn’t tell me. For instance,
that she
has an old girl friend here, good enough to drop
in and stay with. Was
this friend’s name Uplitz?”

“Oh, no. No. But she does have an old
friend here, married
to a very successful man in the chemical
business.”

“Which sounds as if your wife may have
lived in San
Francisco herself once.”

“Yes, indeed. This is her home
town.”

“And she used to be a model.”

“Yes.”

“So she could have known Vere Balton
professionally.”

“I suppose it’s possible.”

“I have another hunch about her. I don’t
think your mar
ried life is exactly blissful. Not that you ever said it
was. But I think she’d be happy to get rid of you—if she could
only keep
enough of the heavy sugar from those Crunchy
Wunchies. And you
know it, because you’re no fool. For
the same reason, I think you’d give her
her freedom if she’d
take a fair settlement. But she’s too greedy,
so you’ve been
holding out. You could do that if you’d been a good hus
band and
had never given her the usual grounds for divorce.”

Mr. Fennick’s thin mouth was grim and tight
around his
cigar.

“You’re making a lot of personal
assumptions, Mr. Tem
plar.”

“Let me make some more. You weren’t
worried about her
jealous nature, as you led me to believe, but about how
much she
could take you for if she had the goods on you.
And when you recovered
from that hit on the head, you
figured she’d got ‘em. Perhaps you put in a
call to your
home in New York and found that she’d flown out here
yesterday,
but without getting in touch with you. That would
have cinched it. She
could have identified herself as your
wife so that even that supercilious
young jerk on the desk
last night would have given her a spare key
to your room,
which was all Balton and Norma needed. And you knew
you
couldn’t buy them off, because with that evidence she
could match any bid
you made. She was all set to take
you for everything you’ve got.”

The Candy Company’s president had his
fingertips pressed
to his temples and his thumbs on his cheeks, his hands
lightly
covering his eyes, in an attitude of intense concen
tration, and he took
no advantage of the moment of silence
that Simon offered him.

The Saint got up and walked over to the carton
that the
other had brought in, giving him time, and lifted the lid
inquisitively. What he saw first was a mechanic’s cap on
top of a
crumpled suit of coveralls, which made him sud
denly and purposefully
delve further. Underneath them he
came to the source of the muffled
clanking he had heard,
a well-worn set of plumber’s tools in an open
carrier, on top
of which was a cheap pair of tinted glasses.

“Well, this fills in a few more
blanks,” he murmured.
“You could have bought the tools at any
secondhand store,
and the overalls and glasses anywhere, and they make a
much
better disguise than a false beard. Even if anyone
noticed you, the
description would never fit Otis Q. Fen
nick, the genius
behind Jumbo Juicies. Even your colleagues
on the convention
probably wouldn’t recognize you on a fast
walk-through. And yet
you’d only need a minute in a booth
in any public john to change into it
or out again. You’re just
loaded with wasted talent, daddy-o. The only
flaw is that you’re still stuck with Liane, who could still give the cops
that
missing motive. One thing leads to another, as the
actress tried to warn
the bishop when he helped her off
with her galoshes.”

Mr. Fennick sat perfectly still, so that for
a second or two
Simon seriously wondered whether the accumulated shocks
and strains
could have been too much for a weak heart.

Then the communicating door burst open, and
the surly
duenna of the outer office burst in.

For an instant the sheer outraged
astonishment of seeing
the Saint standing by the desk made her falter
in her tracks
and almost choked off the words that were piled up to
burst
from her mouth; but the pressure behind them was too
strong.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Fennick, but I knew you’d
want me to
disobey you about this. The hotel called. It’s about Mrs.
Fennick. They were trying to locate you through the con
vention,
and finally they got Mr. Smith at the lecture, and
he told them you were
here. I must warn you, it’s some
thing awful—”

“What is it?” Fennick asked.

“She fell out of the window, Mr. Fennick.
Or she jumped.
They seem to think it was suicide!”

“Good God,” Fennick said huskily.

Simon stepped forward, between him and his
secretary.

“I’ll go with him,” he said.
“You’d better get ready to cope
with the reporters. They’ll be calling
up and flocking around
like vultures in no time. But I know you can
handle them.”

Without actually touching her, he moved her
firmly back
to the outer office again by the force of increasing
proximity
alone, and in default of any supporting intervention by
her
employer she was helpless. The Saint returned her last
venomous
glare with a winning smile and closed the door
on her.

Then he turned back to Fennick and lighted
another
cigarette.

“I guess I underrated you,” he
murmured. “You didn’t for
get about Liane. I suppose she phoned you to
gloat over
what she thought she’d got and asked if you were ready
to talk
business again, and you said you’d be right over. The
Mercurio is only
about three blocks from here, I think, and
you could count on
that dragon you keep outside to prevent
anyone upsetting your
alibi. If you had to tap Liane on the
head with a wrench to make her easy to
push out, the mark
wouldn’t be noticed after she’d hit the ground, any more
than you’d
be noticed scooting back down the stairs in your
plumber’s outfit.
You’d reduced all the risks to a minimum,
which is the best
anyone can do. It was just plain bad
luck about me.”

The manufacturer moved stiffly around the
desk, white-
faced but with a certain dignity.

“I’ll give myself up,” he said.
“You needn’t come to see
that I don’t run away.”

Simon shook his head reproachfully.

“You’re wrong about me again, Otis, old
jujube. I think
capital punishment is a fine cure for blackmailers. Vere
Balton
and Norma Uplitz aren’t any loss to the community. And
that makes
your late wife even guiltier than they were. If
you can get away with
it, good luck to you. The cops won’t
get any hints from me. I’m only coming
along to check out
of that crummy hotel and be on my way.”

41

E
VEN
a
champion leads with his chin sometimes, and this
was one time when the
Saint did it with a flourish and fan
fares. He hadn’t even been feinted out
of position.

“Is there anything I can do for you down
in the playgrounds of the Gilded Shmoe?” he asked.

Coming from anyone else, it would have been
only a con
ventional and harmless way of saying thanks for the long
weekend of
bass fishing that he had enjoyed on the St.
Johns River between
Welaka and Lake George, on his way
South to the more sophisticated and in
many ways less
charming resorts of Florida’s Gold Coast. And Jim Harris,
the
lean and leathery owner of the lodge where Simon Templar
always
stopped, would have taken it the same way.